


In a Hotel in London

by Crowgirl



Series: Welcoming Silences [28]
Category: Foyle's War
Genre: Celebrations, Cute, Established Relationship, Fluff, Gift Giving, Hotels, M/M, Non-Chronological, Post-World War II, tipsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5434982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Your hat is always so <i>straight.’</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In a Hotel in London

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MrsJohn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsJohn/gifts).



‘Your hat is always so _straight,’_ Paul says thoughtfully, warm, faintly whiskey-scented breath brushing Foyle’s ear and Foyle nearly loses his balance. He bites the inside of his lip, makes sure both he and Paul are standing firmly on the landing at the top of the stairs, and keeps them still for a minute while he fumbles for the room key in his coat pocket. 

‘It’s really quite amazing,’ Paul continues, slipping his own key out of his pocket and going on with a steady step to the room door. ‘I sometimes think that if I needed a ruler or a straight edge when we’re out…’ He waves his free hand in a sweeping gesture as he pushes the door open. ‘...somewhere.’ 

He turns in the doorway and leans his shoulders back against the jamb, hips forward, hands in his pockets, one foot a little in front of the other and Foyle can’t stop himself taking a quick glance up and down the hallway to make sure all the other doors are shut because, quite honestly, if Paul doesn’t stop smiling at him like that and take his hands out of his pockets, Foyle is going to have a very hard time justifying what he does next in anyone else’s eyes. And Foyle knows damn well that thought is showing on his face because the corners of Paul’s mouth are tilting and his eyes are turning dark. 

‘And I wondered if that’s why you always did it,’ Paul goes on without any apparent connection.

‘Why I always did what?’ Foyle stands opposite Paul in the doorway, keeping his hands in his own pockets with an effort.

Paul reaches out and runs a finger along Foyle’s hatbrim, then flicks at it, pushing it back on Foyle’s head. ‘Kept it so straight. So we would always have a ruler.’

‘No, I didn’t.’ Foyle catches Paul’s hand, lets himself have the dangerous pleasure of kissing his fingertips. The hallway is quiet around them, the light fading outside the window at the end of the hall. It’s well before the theatre crowd will be coming back; and, in any case, he trusts Valentine not to have sent them into some elaborate set-up.

He sees Paul’s eyes go wide and then Paul’s pulling him into the room, shutting and locking the door behind them. There are a few complicated minutes and then they’re both on the bed, Foyle’s hat and their shoes long gone along with Paul’s jacket and tie. 

‘So why did you?’ Paul answers his own question, holding up a finger like a cut-rate Sherlock Holmes and tapping the end of his own nose. He leans closer to Foyle. ‘Ah, I know -- it’s so I’d have to keep looking at you to try and sort it out. That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘Wasn’t it,’ Foyle corrects. ‘And, no, it wasn’t.’

‘Wasn’t?’ Paul’s eyebrows furrow and he looks oddly disappointed.

‘No -- my grandfather was the one who showed me how to wear a hat.’ Foyle glances over at his hat, tossed askew on top of Paul’s coat. ‘He was a short man -- shorter than me. And he said he’d always found it useful to be the neatest dressed man in the room.’ 

‘Ah, self-confidence.’ Paul nods and lets himself fall back against the pillows, one leg crooked on the bed, the other foot planted to steady himself, lazily undoing his cuffs and turning them up. Foyle lets himself watch: Paul’s long, clever fingers are a weak point and he knows it. He can’t remember how many times when they were first back in the office together he had caught himself watching Paul’s hands a few scant seconds before Paul would have caught him watching. 

But it doesn’t matter now: that was years ago and here, the door is closed and locked and the day is over and he can watch as long as he likes. 

Paul glances up as he switches from right to left wrist and his mouth twists up and he takes the second cuff more slowly, undoing his cufflink with one hand and dropping it on the bedside table. 

The _clunk_ reminds Foyle and he gets up, slipping his own jacket off and pulling the small box out of the pocket as he drapes the jacket over a nearby chair. ‘Here.’ He holds the black velvet-covered box -- there’s thin cardboard underneath the equally thin plush fabric, he can feel it giving under his thumb -- out towards Paul. 

Paul blinks at him and takes the box, his unfastened cuff flopping around his wrist. He turns it back absently. ‘What is it?’ 

‘A present for you. Celebration.’ Foyle waves a hand at the box. ‘In honor of your promotion.’

Paul smiles but there’s a hint of tightness around his eyes and he doesn’t look up. Foyle himself has no qualms about Paul taking over the Hastings force. He’s well-qualified -- _over-_ qualified, if truth be told, and Southampton, Brighton, even London have been sniffing around him since at least 1944, probably sooner. As far as Foyle’s concerned, it’s an ideal change for Paul and the Hastings station. As for himself -- well. If this… _arrangement_ with Hilda Pierce runs smoothly, he’ll be pleased -- and more than a little surprised. It’s not as though it’s a position he courted, so Hilda can certainly never claim he presented himself as anything other than what he is. He’ll be spending more time in London than he really likes but-- 

Foyle blinks and focuses Paul again. He’s still pulling at the corner of his mouth, chewing on his lower lip and studying the box as though it’s a puzzle. He and Paul hadn’t discussed the change in Foyle’s job in more than scheduling terms and he’s suddenly wondering if that was quite enough. 

‘It isn’t a jack-in-the-box,’ Foyle says, hoping to surprise a laugh. He gets the hint of a smile and Paul flips open the box with his thumb. He tilts it slightly and Foyle sees the glint of the metal inside. He sits back, absently undoing the buttons on his waistcoat as he waits for Paul to say something. 

‘Christopher -- they’re far too expensive--’ Paul looks up.

‘Not really.’ Foyle stands up and hangs his waistcoat over his jacket. He runs a hand over his hair and adds, ‘Valentine was able to suggest an excellent jeweller.’

Paul shakes the cufflinks into his palm and turns them in the light. They’re nothing ostentatious -- small silver squares with a wave etched into each. The only thing that might be called flashy -- and it would be a literal description in this case -- is the tiny diamond chip under the wave crest. 

Paul turns them over in his hand, tilts them towards the light and squints at the diamond chips, then looks at Foyle.

‘Well, I could hardly buy you a ring, could I?’ Foyle wants to slap a hand over his own mouth as soon as the words are out; instead, he carefully puts his hands in his pockets, sorting through the coins in his left pocket between thumb and forefinger. Paul stares at him, eyes wide, and then turns, putting the cufflinks back carefully in their box, closing the box, and putting it on the far side of the bedside table. 

Foyle takes the moment when Paul is distracted to close his eyes and curse himself thoroughly. He had debated endlessly about the purchase until he finally just told himself he was putting a ridiculous amount of thought into what was really a relatively small gift, went back to the shop one evening, and bought the damned things. He knows the jeweller had been hiding a smile -- he’s sure he looked foolish and who knows what the man had thought, someone Foyle’s age taking such a time to worry over a pair of _cufflinks,_ for God’s sake.

Foyle could kick himself. He stands silently, a strangely numb feeling creeping over him, and watches Paul place the box and then push himself along the bed until he’s at the foot, his elbow on the brass railing. Paul studies him for another long, silent moment and Foyle readies himself to come up with an explanation he doesn’t mean and he’s already anticipating the feeling of chill between them and-- _Christ,_ what had he been thinking! 

Paul reaches out, knotting his fingers in Foyle’s shirtfront, and pulls him forward so the brass railing is the only thing separating them. ‘You know I would, don’t you? Tomorrow, to _night_ \-- if -- if we could, Christopher, I--’

There’s no chill, there’s no numbness, just an overwhelming rush of feeling he can’t untangle and identify -- doesn't even want to bother taking the time to try, really -- they leave Foyle’s mouth dry and his hands tingling and he can’t remember the last time he wanted to kiss Paul so badly. He lets himself be tugged half-around, half-over the railing at the end of the bed, his hands too busy with Paul’s shirt buttons to bother about grace.

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks to my beta reader [Elizajane](http://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajane/pseuds/elizajane). 
> 
> And extra thanks to [MrsJohn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsjohn) for giving me the idea.


End file.
